Catherine Coulter - The Target

"You can't just dismiss it out of hand, Ramsey. Molly Santera has a past. She may have been innocent, but you know there was a question about it. We can't afford just to ignore it."

Ramsey said, "Are you suggesting that she'd have anything to do with Emma's kidnapping?"

"No, I don't believe that. But how about Louey's murder. What if Louey was the target after all?"

Ramsey said, "Listen, she divorced his worthless ass. There was no reason to kill him. Besides, she couldn't have known that he would try to escape. It was a spontaneous thing; Louey just lost it and ran."

Savich rose to stand facing Ramsey. "What if she convinced him that her father was going to kill him?

What if she told him he'd best clear out and he could take the Mercedes that Gunther had just brought it up? Isn't that possible? Just think about it, Ramsey. None of us have known any of these people for very long. Don't sweep it under the rug because you happen to admire the lady, just because you think her hair's cool."

Ramsey felt his heart pounding against his chest. It made his back ache even more. He didn't believe it.

He was a good judge of character. He'd seen Molly in crunch situations. She hadn't faltered, hadn't broken, hadn't flipped out. He said aloud, "She would have no clue how to fashion a bomb. That means she would have had to hire someone in a very short length of time. Not likely."

"She's Mason Lord's daughter, but maybe you're right about her. You really seem to know this woman very well, even though it's only been for a short time." He sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck.

"What better person to bring someone onto the estate in secret? And how do you know she wouldn't know how to rig a bomb?"

Ramsey just stared at him. He shook his head. Then he turned and walked away. His back was throbbing.

THE NIGHT WAS dark with thick clouds hanging low, the air heavy with coming rain and sweet with the scent of the late-spring flowers. Ramsey shifted to his side, pulling the covers with him. He'd flung the pillow on the floor some hours earlier.

He flipped onto his back again, his left arm over his head. Then, suddenly, he was thrust into a dark room where there were blurred images, voices that overlapped one another, growing louder and louder.

Suddenly the room was clear, the images sharp. He was in his courtroom, jumping over the guardrail, his black robes flying, his legs straight out, his foot kicking the semiautomatic out of a man's arms, sending it spinning across the oak floor. He heard the snap of the man's humerus, heard his howl of rage, saw the wild pain in his eyes. Then he saw terror and panic, saw him leap toward the gun even as he held his broken arm.

He was on him again, with a back-fist punch to his ribs that sent him sprawling to the floor. The din of screaming people filled his mind. A second man whirled around to face him, the semiautomatic raised, ready, and he'd rolled, coming up to twist his hips as he parried, seizing the man's wrist so he wasn't in the line of fire. With his free hand he went after the man's throat, crushing his windpipe, watching him gag, hearing his gun slam against the spectator railing. The screams were high and loud. They went on and on, filling the courtroom, filling his mind, seeping into his brain. He saw the third man now, whirling around in a slow, very precise movement, saw the point when failure registered in his brain, saw him raise his gun and fire randomly, striking the shoulder of one of the defense team, a young man in a pristine white shirt that was instantly shredded and soaked red. The force of the bullet flung him back against three women who were cowered down in the first row of spectators. The man turned back to him, his eyes filled with panic and death. Ramsey felt the heat of a bullet as it passed an inch from his temple, and rolled, picking up the semiautomatic, aiming it even as he lay on his side, and pulled the trigger. He saw the man flung hard against the wall, his blood splattering against the wainscotting. The screams wouldn't stop, just grew louder and louder.

Ramsey jerked up in bed, breathing hard, sweat sheening his forehead, and covered his face with his hands. So much blood, as if it had rained blood, "It's all right, Ramsey."

It was Emma. She was sitting beside him, her small fingers lightly stroking his forearm. "It's all right. It was a nightmare, a bad one, like mine sometimes. Don't worry. I won't leave you, not until you're okay again."

"Emma," he said, surprised that he could even get the word out of his mouth. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, pulled the little girl onto his legs, and drew her close.

"I heard you," she said against his shoulder. "I was scared for you."

"Thank you for coming. It was a bad one. It happened three months ago. I haven't dreamed about it for several weeks now."

"I'm sorry it came back. What was it, Ramsey?" "I had to kill someone, Emma."

She drew back and gazed up at him. His eyes were used to the darkness and he could see her clearly.

She looked at him with calm and utter certainty. "You must have had to, that's all. Did they deserve it?"

He stared down into that child's face with her eyes that had felt far too much pain and seen horrible evil.

He owed her the truth.

"Yes," he said slowly, never looking away from her. "They deserved it. They broke into my courtroom.

They had guns. They wanted to free the drug dealers the jury had just found guilty. They started shooting jurors. So I stopped the carnage."

"What's carnage?"

"Emma? What are you doing here, love?"

She turned toward the door. "Mama, Ramsey had a nightmare. I heard him and knew he needed me. He dreamed about carnage."

Molly blinked at that.

"Hello, Molly," Ramsey said. "I'm okay now. Emma's made me see things a bit differently."

"Can we help you get to sleep, Ramsey?"

"I smell like sweat, Emma. You don't want to stay close to a sweaty guy."

"You're drying off, Ramsey. It's not too bad." Emma yawned, her head falling forward to Ramsey's chest.

He looked toward Molly, who was standing in the doorway, wearing a white sleep shirt that had across the front in blue lettering, F-Stops Are My Specialty.

Molly shrugged. "Why not? Emma and I can stay on top of the covers. Here's another blanket I can cover us with. I'm surprised I didn't hear you. I just realized Emma was gone a moment ago."

As Molly climbed in next to Ramsey, pulling Emma next to her, she said, "Next time it'll be my turn to have a nightmare."

"Are you all right, Ramsey?"

"I'm much better now, Em, that you're here."

"Tell me about the nightmare, Ramsey," Emma said, leaning up over her mother. "Mama says it helps when you say everything out loud," and he did. It was easier this time.

Molly said, "How did they get into the courthouse with guns?"

"A guard was bribed. He's in jail." He felt himself begin to ease. He had no more words. The shadows were reclaiming the blood and the death.

"Yes, I remember now. That was in the articles I read. Well, it's over now. Does your back hurt?"

"No. It wasn't much of a burn, Molly."

"Good," Molly said. Emma was breathing deeply in sleep. Molly lightly touched her hand to his shoulder.

"I'm very glad you weren't hurt."

He tightened like a spring. He cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry I'm sweaty."

"There are three blankets between you and us. You haven't sweated them through."

He heard Emma's rhythmic breathing. She'd crashed. He hated himself, but he couldn't stop the words.

"Tell me about your little brother, Molly."

He felt her stiffen, then felt the whisper of her sigh in the silence. "He was such a sweet little boy. He was just ten years old that summer. He was a good swimmer, which was why I was on the dock, not really paying all that much attention. I was probably thinking about some thirteen-year-old boy, I was just about at that age. Then he was yelling and going under. I swam to him as fast as I could but he never woke up.